The Past Belongs to Me
by Kryptaria
Summary: Six months after the S.H.I.E.L.D. Civil War, Steve Rogers is still in mourning for the loss of Bucky Barnes. For six months, Steve barely survives from day to day, withdrawing from the world, until Sam Wilson finally comes to Brooklyn and brings Steve a reason to live again.


The phone rang four separate times, and all four times, Steve ignored it in favor of chasing the exhaustion that would never come. He'd wrecked the last punching bag, ran the treadmill motor until it seized, and for the last two hours he'd been lifting the heaviest weights the bars could support, but none of it helped.

These days, nothing helped.

He finally gave up when he heard the janitor's key turn in the lock. Six in the morning. Another night wasted.

He picked up his towel and phone, then got out of the gym before the janitor could show up. He'd never laid eyes on the man, and he really didn't want to go through that "You're really him!" moment. He didn't want to give an autograph or stand there with a fake smile for a picture.

Instead, he slipped out the back exit, locked the door, and only then remembered to put on his jacket. The sky was charcoal grey; the air was thick with heavy, wet snow that would stick just enough to make the sidewalks slippery before it melted into unpleasant slush. Winter in Brooklyn suited Steve's mood perfectly.

He went out of his way to a corner store where the owner was too blind to recognize him and too old to really care. The microwave breakfast burrito barely qualified as food, but Steve wasn't in the mood to cook. It had been months since he'd bothered, but still he got weekly deliveries from the grocery store. He figured he should probably empty the spoiled food out of his fridge, but he just didn't care. Instead, he poured himself a cup of burnt black coffee, paid for everything at the register, and then headed back home to... to do nothing. To fill up another empty day and kill time until he could go back to the gym after it closed at nine.

The phone rang again just as he unlocked the door to his building. He answered only because he didn't want to wake anyone up. He'd managed to sneak through the halls without being seen; the neighbors had no idea that Captain America — or maybe _ex-_Captain America — was living next door.

"What?"

"So you _didn't_ lose your phone," Sam Wilson answered. "What's with you? I've been trying to get hold of you for days."

Steve bit back a sigh as he closed the door. Even in this bleak mood, he was too polite to just hang up, so he said, "Look, Sam, you caught me at a bad time. My hands are full, and I've got to check my mail." It wasn't even a lie; he couldn't remember when he'd last checked the mail. He probably had a note to go pick it up at the post office or something.

"Yeah, don't give me that crap, Rogers. I'm here only a couple more days before I've got to go back to DC, and I'm not leaving until I see you."

"What? No! Sam —"

"Oh, shut up, Steve!" Sam snapped, and Steve blinked and stopped trying to cut him off. "There's a diner on Cadman Plaza West, opposite the war memorial. Get your ass there in — Shit, Rogers, it's six? I'll give you four hours. Ten a.m. Understand?"

Steve shook his head. "Sam —"

"You either say yes and then show up, or I'm sending a recovery team after you. The only reason Natasha and the others don't know where you live is 'cause I haven't told them. _Yet_," he added threateningly.

"Were you always this much of a jerk?" Steve asked sharply.

Sam barked out a laugh. "Yeah. And sometimes, that's what it takes. Ten o'clock, Rogers," he said before he hung up.

Steve sighed, slumping back against the wall of mailboxes. The last thing he wanted was to go to a cheerful diner by himself, much less to meet Sam, but Sam wasn't the type to make empty threats. And while there was nothing holding Steve here — no reason he couldn't just get on his bike and leave — uprooting himself felt like way too much work.

So he'd go. He'd go to the diner and pretend that everything was okay, and then Sam would go back to Washington DC, and Steve could go back to killing time.

For the first time in forever, Steve shaved and put on a nice collared shirt with a sweater and new dark blue jeans. It felt like putting on a costume, but he'd done enough of that in his life to know how to fake being comfortable. And at half past nine, he left his apartment, anonymous under a heavy winter coat and scarf, and headed for the diner. He probably should've taken a cab, but that would require chatting with the cabbie. Besides, he barely noticed the snow.

The run-down diner on the corner looked like it had been there for fifty years. Steve walked past the delivery gate, past the tinted windows, and paused at the front door. He felt as if he were going into battle against an unknown enemy, only there was no surge of adrenaline — no certain, unshakable knowledge that he _would_ find a way to win, at any cost, because he'd already lost the only thing that mattered to him.

Resigned, he pushed open the door and went inside. A wall of heat hit him like a truck. He pulled his scarf down and unbuttoned his jacket just so he could breathe.

"Hey, man!"

Sam's cheerful voice drew Steve's eyes to a booth. Steve's fake smile faltered when he saw that Sam wasn't alone. Someone was sitting opposite Sam; all Steve could see beyond the tall booth was medium-dark hair.

At least it wasn't Natasha. She was probably furious that Steve had been ignoring her calls for the last few months, but it was nothing personal. He'd been ignoring _everyone's_ calls. He only carried the phone with him in case there was a real emergency, like another alien invasion.

As Steve headed for the booth, Sam stepped out into the aisle and intercepted him. "Thanks for coming," Sam said, offering Steve his hand. When Steve took it, Sam added, "Go have a seat. I'll be at the counter if you guys need anything."

Confused, Steve looked towards the booth again, but he couldn't see who was sitting there. Clint, maybe? The diner wasn't Tony's style.

"What? You're not..."

Sam let go of his hand to clap him on the shoulder. "Go on," he told Steve, giving him a little push.

If it had been anyone but Sam, Steve would've suspected a trap. He trusted Sam, though, so he took another two steps and turned —

And everything _stopped_.

Bucky sat there, wearing a denim jacket too light for this weather and a plain white T-shirt. His metal left hand was under the table; his right rested by a half-empty cup of coffee. He stared up at Steve with brilliant blue eyes and Bucky's old smile and not a hint of the Winter Soldier's shadow anywhere on his face.

Then he rose, never looking away, and said, "Hey, Steve."

Bucky was gone. He'd somehow survived the fall from the helicarrier, and he'd dragged Steve out of the water, but then he'd disappeared. Steve and Natasha had searched the riverbank for days for any hint of what had happened to him. They'd even rented scuba gear so they could see if Bucky had gone back into the water and drowned, but... nothing.

And now, he was here, looking nothing like the Winter Soldier except for the metal hand that was mostly hidden under a black motorcycle glove.

Bucky's smile faded. He looked away, an uncharacteristic hint of fear crossing his face. "I —" he began.

Then he turned, shoulders hunched, and leaned into the booth to pick up a sandy brown duffel bag. From the lumpy rounded shape, Steve knew that it was his shield in there — the shield that he'd lost the day that he'd lost Bucky forever. Or so he'd thought.

"I, uh..." Avoiding Steve's eyes, Bucky held out the bag, saying, "I found this at the bottom of the river. Figured you'd want it back."

Steve took the shield and dropped it to one side, not caring about the noise or how it hit a chair and overturned it. He stared at Bucky, struggling to find words — to find the breath to speak — and finally managed to force out Bucky's name.

"Yeah," Bucky said, still looking down and around and anywhere but at Steve. "I'm okay now, mostly. But after everything — I know this isn't easy. I'll just — You've got that back now so..."

Steve watched Bucky turn and walk away. One step. Two. Only then did Steve realize that Bucky was back, and now he was _leaving_.

Three steps. Four. And something inside Steve broke. Six months of barely surviving, of nightmares of losing the best friend he'd ever had, of thinking about the monster that HYDRA had created and the knowledge that somewhere inside that monster's skin, Bucky _knew_ what he'd been doing all along. Six months of thinking Bucky was better off dead than being crushed under that guilt and of selfishly hating himself for wanting Bucky back anyway.

_"Bucky!"_

The shout silenced the low chatter and rattle of cups and silverware, leaving only the loud hiss of the heater vents on full blast. Everyone turned to stare, but the only one who mattered was Bucky. He turned and looked back over his shoulder, hope and fear and loss in his eyes.

Steve kicked his shield out of the way and covered the distance between them in no time at all. He grabbed Bucky by the shoulders and pulled him close, wrapped his arms around Bucky's body, felt him let out one rough, choked breath, almost a sob, before he caught Steve around the waist and held on tight. Taller or shorter, with two good arms or one made of metal, this was somehow, impossibly, _Steve's_ closest friend, the man who meant more to him than anyone else ever had, and he'd come back to Steve from the dead, from another century.

"Hey. Steve, it's okay," Bucky whispered, fingers digging into Steve's jacket to clench the heavy, wet wool.

_"Stay."_ Steve forced the word out, though his chest had gone tight and his throat was closed up. It was barely a whisper, but Bucky heard. Bucky understood, the way he'd always understood.

"Not going anywhere, Steve," Bucky promised, breath warm against the side of Steve's neck. "I'm right here. I'm okay. Everything's okay now."

Steve closed his eyes and dragged in a breath. When he'd awakened from the ice, everything had hit with a jolt of electricity like one of Howard Stark's machines. Now, he felt that lightning-shock of reality hit again. The leaden nightmare of the last six months shattered.

Bucky's hand rubbed circles over Steve's back. "Steve, it's okay, pal. I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

Reluctantly, Steve pulled back enough to look into Bucky's eyes. They were glassy and a little red, but they were _him_.

"How did you come back?" Steve whispered, refusing to let go.

Bucky shrugged. "It took a while. Sam helped, and a few other doctors at the VA. But mostly, it was you." One corner of his mouth tugged up. "Until the end of the line, remember?"

"Hey, uh, I hate to interrupt," Sam cut in, grinning madly, "but maybe this isn't the place? Since you two aren't going to kill each other, you don't need me here anymore."

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky said, keeping one arm around Steve's waist as he turned to give Sam a smile. "For everything."

"No problem. Just remember, you owe me a new set of wings," Sam said, smacking Bucky's left shoulder. "Steve, maybe you can help Bucky find a place to stay, get him settled?"

"Stay?" Steve asked dumbly. "Here? In Brooklyn?"

"Where it all started," Bucky said.

"I've got —" Steve began, thinking of his apartment. It was small, barely furnished, and a wreck with neglected laundry and dishes. But none of that mattered. He and Bucky had lived in worse conditions, and Steve could have the place straightened out in just a few hours. "You're staying with me."

Bucky looked at him questioningly. "Are you sure? You don't have to. I know you like having your own place."

"I was eighteen and an idiot for saying it," Steve said with a slightly hysterical laugh. "You're staying."

"Then I'm off," Sam said, still grinning at them both as if he'd personally rescued Bucky from the dead — which, maybe, he had. "Don't forget your bag," he added, giving Bucky one last slap on the shoulder before he headed to the cash register.

Steve stood there, feeling Bucky resting comfortably against his body, until Bucky snapped him out of his daze by asking, "Are we going to stand here all day?"

"No." Steve laughed again and gave Bucky's shoulders one last squeeze before he let go to get his shield. "Come on. Let's get you home."

Hours later, when the overcast sky had turned black and the snow started to pile up on the windowsills, Steve concluded that if anyone was a superhero, it was Sam Wilson. Bucky insisted on helping Steve do the laundry and clear the fridge of all the life forms growing in the mucky corners and unmarked bags. He'd even helped to dust and vacuum, and as he worked, he told Steve how Sam had helped him find himself, buried under the Winter Soldier's mask.

"Look, I don't know what you've been going through, but Sam's a great therapist," Bucky said as he scraped at his metal hand with a knife, digging dirt out from under the smooth plates that formed his joints. "Maybe you should talk to him."

"I don't need a therapist."

"Then you need to fire your maid service." Bucky shot Steve a grin, and just as it had every time that afternoon and evening, it nearly stopped Steve's heart. "If this dump isn't a reflection of your mental state for the last six months, they're ripping you off."

Steve laughed and threw a towel at Bucky. "Yeah, well, I don't need a maid, either. Not if you're bunking with me."

"As if I'm doing all your housework?" Bucky dried off his metal arm, threw down the towel, and walked over to Steve with that cocky, challenging grin of his firmly in place. "Try again, pal."

"Oh? Want the number to my real estate agent now?" Steve teased, since he had no intention of throwing Bucky out. He didn't even plan on ever letting Bucky _leave_.

"Maybe," Bucky said as his smile softened to something more tentative. "'Cause there's one thing I still haven't told you, and I figure you might want to kick me out after. It's okay if you do."

"Not going to happen," Steve promised, leaning against the counter. "I just got you back. I'm not letting you leave my sight for at least another seventy-five years."

Bucky's laugh sounded a little nervous. He looked down and moved to Steve's side, folding his arms across his chest. It looked strange, and not just because of the metal arm. The body language wasn't Bucky. He was never uncertain or tentative or hesitant.

A little tremor shot through Steve, fear whispering in the back of his mind. "You're — You're not dying, are you?" he asked as everything inside him went cold.

"What? No!" Bucky shook his head, grin returning full-force. He uncrossed his arms to give Steve a hard poke in the arm. "It'll take more than an old man like you to take me down."

Steve laughed as the fist around his heart unclenched. "Then let's hear it."

But instead of answering right away, Bucky turned and leaned down, resting his forearms on the counter. He looked across the apartment to the windows and quietly said, "You came back to the old neighborhood. It's changed."

"Yeah." Steve turned, studying Bucky's profile. His hair was longer than it used to be, and though Bucky had combed it back in a side part, the day's cleaning had messed it up. Strands fell in front of Bucky's eye, though he kept pushing them back out of his face.

"Remember when one of the battleships would dock, and the sailors would come to the neighborhood, looking for a little action?"

Steve's stomach did a quick flip. The sailors who came to their old neighborhood were looking for hookers, but not the female kind.

Before he could say anything, Bucky continued, "Or those drag clubs? If it was a quiet night, we could hear them singing, remember?"

"Yeah." Steve swallowed, throat gone dry.

"We never really said anything about it, but it was all around us." Bucky turned and gave Steve a warm, heartfelt look. "And you were a lousy double date with the girls."

It felt like Bucky's nervousness had jumped over to Steve instead. He laughed and tried to look away, but Bucky's eyes were so very blue. "I wasn't really interested in most girls."

"I was, but not _too_ interested. I was mostly on those double dates to be with you."

The words struck Steve like rocks on a smooth, quiet pond, rippling everywhere through him.

Bucky's gaze dropped, flicking over Steve's face, before settling back on his eyes. "Maybe I would've figured it out, if not for the War. I was too young to really know what I wanted."

Steve fought to take a breath. "We're not young now."

"I know." A hint of Bucky's smile returned. "I want..."

"Yeah?"

"It's up to you." Bucky laughed again, nervous and sharp. "Either I want your real estate agent's number, or I really, really want to kiss you."

Steve licked dry lips and gave a jerky, quick nod. "Yeah. I mean, yes. The second one," he said, feeling heat rush through his body and up to his face.

Bucky let out a breath. He stood up and turned, lifting his right hand so slowly that Steve could see the tremor of his muscles, as if he wanted to give Steve a chance to change his mind.

But he wouldn't.

He caught Bucky's hand and held tight, and they both took a half-step forward. Bucky turned his hand and spread his fingers, and Steve's fingers fitted naturally with his, lacing together, holding tight. Bucky was a few inches shorter, and Steve had only kissed three women in his life, but he knew to duck and turn his head, and then Bucky's lips touched his. The kiss was soft and sweet, just a brush of lips, without asking for more.

And that wasn't enough — not for Steve, who had mourned Bucky's death twice now, as if a part of himself had died. With his free arm, Steve pulled Bucky close and kissed him again, inexpertly demanding more.

With a soft sound, Bucky wrapped his metal hand around Steve's nape and took control of the kiss, tipping his head a bit more. He licked at Steve's lips, and when Steve gasped, Bucky silenced it by touching Steve's tongue with his own. Steve's pounding heartbeat turned into a deafening roar. He surrendered blindly, desperately, giving in to the kiss as best he could, and when Bucky drew back, Steve chased his mouth, wanting more.

Bucky turned, pushing Steve back against the counter. "Steve," he whispered, pulling away. His eyes had gone dark — not Winter Soldier dark but with huge, blown pupils ringed with only a thin line of clear sky blue.

Steve freed his hands to cup Bucky's face, fingertips pressing over his cheekbones, his jaw, his lips. "You really want" — he faltered, thinking _me_, though he couldn't say it — "this?"

Bucky smiled and took hold of Steve's wrist so he could kiss Steve's palm. "Yeah. Maybe, do you think we could try and make it work? It's okay, these days. Sam told me how the laws had changed."

_"Sam knows?"_

Bucky laughed, the sound so warm and alive and real that Steve's embarrassment vanished like smoke. "Yeah, he knows. He was my therapist. He figured it out when I wouldn't stop talking about you. How glad I was that you were still alive."

Steve sighed, leaning his forehead against Bucky's.

"Is it so bad?" Bucky teased quietly, dropping his hands to Steve's hips. "A whole lot of girls would be lucky to have me — not to mention the guys."

"Good to see you've embraced the modern age," Steve said wryly. He pulled Bucky into his arms again, just because he could. "If you start taking selfies, I'll —"

_"What?"_ Bucky interrupted.

"Selfies. Pictures of yourself."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

Steve laughed. "Well, you did clean up real nice."

Bucky smacked Steve's arm. "Yeah, only one of us was on stage with a whole platoon of chorus girls, pretty boy."

"Pretty, huh?" Steve asked, grinning at the compliment.

"Aw, God, there it is. I _knew_ you'd get a damn ego. All those interviews and photo ops and _trading cards_ —"

Laughing, Steve kissed Bucky into silence. When Bucky relaxed into Steve's arms, their bodies molded together, Steve whispered, "Truce?"

Bucky's eyes lit up, and he pushed his hips forward, sending sparks of searing pleasure through Steve's body. "Convince me," he challenged.

Not one to back away from any challenge, Steve did his best.


End file.
